


The Ninth Wave

by Warmybones



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Protective Keith (Voltron), Slow Burn, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 05:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13229196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warmybones/pseuds/Warmybones
Summary: The ninth wave is the final and most destructive wave of a tsunami.(Eight moments that made Keith and Lance care for each other, and another one that was bound to break them)





	The Ninth Wave

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year everyone! Here's my entry for the Aphelion zine, I hope you enjoy!

**_First wave_ **

 

Keith’s fingers twitched over his lap, trembled even, with the itch that kept on crawling beneath his skin. He tried to ignore it, hands curling into fists and mind focusing on the burning weight of the blade resting against his lower back. It didn’t do much to ease his discomfort, to quieten the indignant screams that were taking over the room.

“He can’t be here!”

 

Keith would have winced if he wasn’t so tired.  But he was, his mind begging for rest and adrenaline still kicking, creating an antithesis in the pit of his stomach that churned, churned, _churned—_

 

It was supposed to be an after-mission reunion with the leaders of the planet—the now _free_ planet—but instead, it had turned into an ugly mess when one of the aliens had realized Keith was half-galra.

 

He curled his hands tighter, the faint notion of Allura speaking entering his mind like an afterthought. He didn’t want to look at his teammates, his friends, scared of what he would find there. A willingness to dispose of him in favour of a new alliance maybe, a soft voice whispered delightfully inside his head.

 

It sounded like him, and Keith wanted it to stop.

 

“Outrageous! That’s what this whole ordeal is! How can you fight alongside a galra and feel like you’re doing this universe justice? I just can’t believe that you paladins, the defenders of the universe, would do this—”

 

_Don’t make this about them,_ Keith thought, anger boiling in the hollow of his throat when he remembered the raw desperation with which his team had fought to free this people, the injuries they were sporting as they sat at the rounded table. _They aren’t responsible for what I am._

 

He wanted to say those words, put them out into the world because it was important for him to protect his team, even if this particular war was being fought with words. But they wouldn’t come, no matter how much he tried, and so he was left bare for the sudden anger that the alien directed towards him.

 

“You,” they said venomously, fiery grey eyes focusing on him as the words continued to spill. “Vile creature. I won’t stand for it, I won’t—”

 

A loud, sharp sound cut the alien’s next words off, making Keith jump in his seat along with the rest of the room. His body reacted on instinct, hands flying towards his blade as his muscles tightened, ready to attack. But when he searched for the source of the sudden noise, the only thing he could see was Lance at his right, up from his seat, with his hand splayed over the table.

 

It made Keith freeze, made him watch with wide eyes the unfamiliar, taut expression of Lance’s face. He was always so in control of how he looked, of how he presented himself to people, that it felt strange to watch him unravelling. It felt intimate, even.

 

The searing disgust of his gaze as he trained it on the alien was reflected on the frown upon his face, in the way he grinded his teeth together, trying to hold himself from god knew what. Keith could see it in the line of his shoulders too, pulled tightly with tension. Like a bowstring ready to be let go. A ticking bomb.

 

_That’s not Lance,_ he thought, feeling like he had been washed ashore.

 

“You won’t stand for it?” Lance asked then, tone dripping with something that made Keith blink, confused. He wanted to tug at the edge of his breastplate, make him sit down until he was back to being the Lance everyone was used to. “How self-centred can you be?”

 

“Lance,” Allura said evenly, standing from her seat with her hands hovering in front of her, as if Lance was a wild animal.

 

Keith’s heart thudded inside his chest.

 

“I’m sorry, Princess, but not this time,” he said, containing himself for a moment before turning back to the alien.

 

It was delightful to see them swallow soundly, to see their eyes widen, taking up their whole face before Lance began to speak.

 

“He is sitting right here,” Lance gestured to him, barely sparing him a glance, and Keith felt something bubbling inside of him, raising goosebumps into his skin. “Bloody and beaten after saving _your_ people, after saving _you._ And you think you have the right to put him down?”

 

“You think you have the right to tell us what’s justice, what isn’t justice, and how should he act on that? You have no respect, you have no—” he continued before cutting himself off and breathing in deeply. Keith saw him clenching his fist over the table, tightly, before letting it bleed out. “Voltron needs no business with someone who won’t accept the entirety of its team.”

 

Keith swore he heard people murmuring, gasping, but he couldn’t be sure, dizzy with Lance’s words, with the authoritative and protective tone he had taken.

 

“I’m going back,” he said then, into the silence of the room, closing his eyes before slipping away from them, from Keith.

 

If attacking had been instinctual before, following Lance out of the room was now. Maybe Lance being serious, defending _him_ with such an intensity that left him breathless was what got him out of his seat, footsteps resounding loudly in the room as he ignored the surprised calls of his name.

 

He wanted to reach him, to tell him… tell him… God, he didn’t know. Words had been the only and worst enemy that had persisted through the years, as he had fought battle after battle with little success. But he had rarely felt the soft weight that was now leaning tenderly into his chest, and he didn’t want it to fade away.

 

Not yet.

 

He found Lance in one of the balconies of the alien ship, sitting on the veranda and looking out and into the three moons that adorned the sky. He looked soft like that, even when scratches were parading over his skin, even when the line of his shoulders was still taut and ready to snap.

 

Keith had the sudden urge to reach out and ease it.

 

“I thought you were going back,” he said instead, making his way to Lance’s side to watch the wince wreck through his expression.

 

“I got distracted,” he murmured, head tilting towards the splendid red moons instead of towards Keith.

 

He sounded so tired it made Keith’s body throb in sympathy.

 

The silence grew after that, allowing only the sounds of Lance picking at the hem of his shirt, bouncing his legs against the solid surface beneath his thighs. He was restless, and Keith knew the exact moment he would open his mouth to let the words spill.

 

“They had—” Lance cut himself off, closing his eyes as his fingers curled over the veranda and tightened. It made Keith hyper aware of his movements, his words. “They had no right saying those things to you.”

 

Lance’s words touched something inside of him, a loose string that had himself spilling too, even if it drew a sour chuckle out of Lance.

 

“Why did you defend me?”

 

“Because you’re still you. Half-galra or not,” he shook his head, almost as if he couldn’t believe he had to explain himself. “You’re part of Voltron. You risk your life to save others, you are an unfairly good pilot… It’s your actions that matter, not your heritage.”

 

“You’re still Keith,” he added as an afterthought, leaning backwards to let the breeze mess his hair even more, to exhale a heavy breath.

 

A wave of gratitude crashed against Keith’s skin, seeping through it and into his bones. He felt his hands trembling, felt how his lungs constricted at the words, leaving him stumbling to stutter the first thing that came to his mind.

 

“Y-You think I’m a good pilot?”

 

He saw the way Lance blushed at being caught, but he also saw how his shoulders dropped, as if he was too tired to keep up, to deny whatever he had been denying until now.

 

“Yeah, well. You’re the golden boy, after all.”

 

_Don’t call me that,_ he thought, but didn’t say. He hated the name, hated how much it was used to set him apart from the rest at the Garrison, how much attention it drew to him. And now, hearing it fall from Lance’s lips, he hated it even more. He was no golden boy, he was a paladin of Voltron, just as Lance was.

 

He didn’t want a stupid nickname separating them.

 

“I’m just me,” Keith found himself saying, sounding small and confused, almost as if he couldn’t figure out what was wrong with being like this.

 

Lance must have picked up on the tremor of his voice, on how he casted his eyes to the ground, because he was turning to him, one hand coming up to settle over his shoulder. He squeezed there, right at the edge of Keith’s collar, mindful of his sore body and unaware of the way Keith’s belly toppled over at the warmth in the gesture.

 

“That’s more than enough, Keith,” he murmured, smiling, something small and private that left Keith standing at the edge of the balcony, static.

 

Lance’s eyes were sparklingly blue, an antithesis to the reddened light that the moons cast over them, and they shone with something like understanding, glazed over with a gentleness that was, surprisingly, directed at Keith.

 

“Come on, sit down. This planet is too pretty to miss,” he said, louder than before, as if trying to break the too serene atmosphere that had settled between them. He drew his hand away from Keith’s skin, and Keith had to suppress a liquid shiver of disappointment.

 

It wasn’t until they were sitting together on the veranda, watching the celebrating figures on the ground and the way the stars rotated throughout the sky, that Keith got his thoughts in order. Got his vocal chords to vibrate for him, and when he finally managed to open his mouth, it felt like nothing but a miracle.

 

“Lance,” he whispered, fingers interlacing over his lap and feeling, for whatever ridiculous reason, warm and safe. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” he hummed with his eyes closed as a small smile painted itself on his face.

 

And Keith, sitting there with Lance as the hours passed, couldn’t find a reason why they had always been so rough with each other. Not when being like this— _content, warm, peaceful, light…—_ felt so natural.

 

 

**_Second wave_ **

 

It wasn’t that Keith didn’t pay attention. His impulsiveness was rash, forthcoming, and much more noticeable than the way he observed quietly, categorizing the things that piqued his interest.

 

So yes, he _did_ pay attention. To the little things at least.

 

Like Shiro’s habit of brushing his fringe back when he was embarrassed. How Pidge snorted if she laughed hard enough. The way Hunk’s hands were _always_ warm. Coran’s habit of playing with his moustache when he was thinking. How Allura looked as if she was about to sneeze when she was angry…

 

The way Lance looked as if all the energy had been drained out of him when someone ignored him.

 

Keith wished he had never seen it. It didn’t feel right, to watch Lance’s expression sour, brow frowning as his lithe body seemed to crumble under a weight Keith couldn’t see. It pulled in between Keith’s ribs, making it harder for him to breathe, every time he couldn’t stop it from happening.

 

It was painful to watch Lance lose his humour, his sparkle. And it was downright suffocating when Shiro was the one causing it.

 

“Shiro, I really think—”

 

“Yeah, Lance, just a second. We’re onto something here…”

 

They had been in this meeting for an hour, creating a plan to infiltrate one of the Galra bases—searching for better routes, escape strategies, battle positioning—, and all Keith had been able to focus on was the way Lance tried to get Shiro’s attention, and the way Shiro denied him again and again.

 

It had happened once at the beginning of the meeting. Then it had happened again, and again, one too many times for Lance to keep trying to be heard over the voice of their leader. It made anger crush Keith’s windpipe, like a tidal wave rattling him.

 

“Hey, Shiro,” Keith called, stomach churning when he immediately had his attention. He saw Lance turn his head away, silent and looking for all that mattered, defeated. “Lance has ideas that could help us.”

 

Lance’s shoulders jumped in surprise, suddenly coming back to life as their owner looked back to watch Keith with widened eyes.

 

“The plan is already good, Keith, we have to do this quick—”

 

“But we’re a team,” Keith cut in, too loud for him to seem calm. He tore his gaze away from Lance to look at Shiro, to try and convey all the things his mouth was unable to say aloud. “We listen to each other.”

 

_Please, give him a chance. Don’t brush him off like that._

 

“We take care of each other,” he added, voice lowering on its own accord as his eyes slipped from Shiro’s gaze to lock onto Lance’s.

 

There was a storm there, barely concealed. It made Keith hold his breath, made him watch, enraptured, the solemnity of Lance’s expression when Shiro asked for his opinion. He could have drowned them all if he had wanted. But the ocean could also sweep you tenderly into safety, just like Lance decided to do.

 

Shiro understood that after hearing Lance’s plan, after watching him paint over the map with a precision and a confidence that wasn't boisterous, but silent, detailed.

 

It made Keith feel proud.

 

Even after the meeting had ended, that buzzy feeling stayed on the edges of his ribs, intensifying when Lance came back from talking with Shiro with a shy smile.

 

It made him look younger, boyish. It suited him.

 

“Shiro apologized,” he chuckled, one hand coming up to scratch his neck, a faint shade of red dying the apple of his cheeks. “I—uh. I wanted to thank you.”

 

“Just… raise your voice when it matters, alright?” Keith said, looking up to find Lance watching him attentively. “I’m listening, but there are people who might not be.”

 

“Maybe it’s because what I say isn’t worth listening to,” Lance scoffed, voice rising just like his barriers. He could see the ocean in his eyes darkening, pulling him in, away from Keith.

 

“It is,” he said, fiercely, hearing the words underneath, the ones Lance erased as he looked away from Keith. “Haven’t you seen? Your plan was perfect. Your strategies have saved us from dying before. Your aim too!”

 

He breathed in, focusing on the way Lance seemed off-balance, eyes widened and mouth slightly open. He stared at Keith as if he had never seen him before, as if fire was suddenly pouring from his mouth.

 

But the only thing that was coming out of his mouth was the truth, and he wanted Lance to understand it.

 

“You matter, Lance.”

 

And maybe that was where he lost him, because suddenly his barriers were higher than ever, his ocean a chaotic tsunami.

 

“But I don’t,” he whispered, shoulders dropping— _again_ —, voice growing quiet and small, just like before.

 

He would never be able to fight a war with words, Keith realized, not like Lance could. But damn him if he were ever the cause of the feelings that collided within Lance.

 

“If I matter,” Keith whispered, extending his hand to grip Lance’s wrist. He jumped at the contact, but Keith held on. “Why wouldn’t you?”

 

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

 

It was Keith who was off-balance, now, because he couldn’t reach Lance, no matter the easiness with which Lance had reached Keith when he had needed it. He despised Lance’s walls, despised knowing that he wouldn’t make him see just how wrong he was about himself.

 

“I want one,” he tried, looking up and hoping to find something there. Anything. “An answer.”

 

But Lance just closed his eyes tightly, making his brow furrow. It felt raw, to see someone collecting themselves before they could crumble down. It felt even more so when Lance stepped away, breaking free from Keith’s hold as he turned towards the door.

 

“Thank you again,” he murmured, letting the sound echo against the walls as he slipped away, leaving Keith alone.

 

Again.

 

“You matter,” Keith whispered, closing his eyes, remembering Lance’s expression as the buzzy feeling turned into thorned claws. “You _do_ matter.”

 

 

**_Third wave_ **

 

Blue’s cockpit was always cold. No matter what Lance did, how much he sweated or how hard he fought, the temperature always remained the same. It reminded him of the chilly nights back home, of opening the window and letting the breeze touch your skin with its fingertips. It wasn’t the same, but Lance found solace in it, in the way Blue was a constant presence in the back of his mind.

 

But now… Now solace escaped him, blown away to ride its way in between threads of wind.

 

_“Lance, you will give us cover. Stand guard outside the galra ship and shoot anyone on sight, okay?”_

 

Shiro’s voice was still inside of his head, echoing. It was terrifying, how a simple phrase could freeze him up so badly, could make his limbs tremble with the responsibility he had to carry. It wasn’t easy to know that a simple misstep would send them all tumbling into Zarkon’s hands, that a failure from Lance’s part would erase the universe’s last hope.

 

It wasn’t easy, not when his teammates believed that he would protect them, without a single doubt. The memory of that immovable trust made Lance shiver against Blue’s seat, and he tried to shake the phantom feeling that his armour fit too loosely on him.

 

_Like a child wearing adult clothes,_ he thought, watching helplessly the way the Galra ship crawled out from the edge of Blue’s window. His eyes followed the lines of the machinery, dry panic scratching his throat as the comms came alive with the faint sound of static.

 

“Hey,” it was Keith’s voice, unusually soft, the one that startled Lance into clarity. “You okay?”

 

Lance could only close his eyes briefly and feel a shiver run through him, violently and unexpectedly, at the contrast between Keith’s voice and the one inside his head. His hands curled tighter around Blue’s control, seeking balance.

 

He didn’t need this. He didn’t need Keith babying him. He didn’t need the brimming concern that bled into his tone.

 

“Peachy,” he answered, trying to keep the irritation out of his tone and his heart from pulsing in his throat. It didn’t work. “What, are you worried that I’m gonna mess this up?”

 

The silence that followed was so vividly tangible Lance could feel it sneaking in between his ribs, widening the spaces there. He could also feel Keith’s confusion at the other end of the line. It was as palpable as Lance’s fear, and he didn’t have to be next to Keith to know he was blinking, frowning in that characteristically disarming way of his.

 

“No? You sounded nervous before leaving. I wanted to check on you,” and it was sweet, it really was. But Lance couldn’t make up his mind, couldn’t possibly know if he hated it or loved it, because the prospect of Keith not surviving this barrelled into him without a warning, as terrifying as the cold and empty parts of space.

 

He took a shuddering breath. He knew, even when he was getting caught up inside of his head, that he hated the way Keith picked up on it instantly.

 

“Lance…”

 

“I’m fine,” he cut him off, skin prickling underneath his suit. The Galra ship was getting closer, and the lie tasted too bitter on his tongue, so he added, “I’ll protect all of you. I swear.”

 

He shivered, feeling the weight of the words on the edge of his lips, trying to drag them down. Blue purred all around him, a reassurance—salvation in the form of technology—and he exhaled, his grip on Blue weakening at the way both Keith and Blue seemed to envelop him.

 

“We know,” Keith said, intently, urging him to understand in a few words what couldn’t be conveyed in millions. “I know, Lance.”

 

But he didn’t, he didn’t know just how tender Lance was, just how much he wanted to protect him. He didn’t want to lose him, not when he had discovered how marvellously easy was to get along with him, to let himself just _be_.

 

Bit by bit.

 

“We will protect you, too. You know that, right?”

 

It was easy to forget himself as the words washed over him, Keith’s voice hoping to be like honey, to make the words stick into his mind long enough so he would never forget that he wasn’t alone, that he had a team looking out for him in return. The chill that shook his voice was heightened by Blue’s purr, and when he looked at the vast expanse of space before him, the world seemed sharper.

 

“We’re going in,” Shiro’s voice startled them both, clawing them from their shimmering space and throwing them into sharp reality. “Good luck, guys. I’ll see you back at the castle.”

 

And then they were alone again, each one far away from the other, but still feeling so close, unexpectedly calm after Shiro’s absolute confidence that they would live to see everyone again. Lance wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out, and for once, Keith’s did.

 

“Go get ‘em, sharpshooter,” he whispered, an intimate wildfire akin to hope that bended to fit inside Lance’s bones. “I have your back.”

 

Keith was gone then, the comms suddenly silent, not even static filling the cockpit. Keith didn’t expect a reply, Lance knew, but he still mouthed a _good luck_ , feeling ardour bubbling from the pit of his stomach. He pushed at the controls and sent Blue flying into enemy territory with a smile.

 

 

**_Fourth wave_ **

 

Lance would have never thought that a desert on an alien planet would look identical to the ones on Earth. He would have never thought he would end up stranded on one, either, but here they were, he and Keith, waiting for their friends to find them based on sheer, dumb luck.

Waiting and waiting and waiting until it became so unbearable that Lance fell onto his knees, exasperated and tired from pacing.

“God, it’s too hot,” Lance whined, throwing his head back to take a deep breath, feeling the burning heat coating his skin with sweat.

Keith hummed beside him, an agreement or an acknowledgment to make him shut up, maybe. He looked tired, sitting on the sand with his legs crossed as he let the scorching wind tug messily at his hair. It made Lance stare. It made Lance notice the deep flush on Keith’s cheeks, the way his skin took the sun in so easily. It was cute, endearing, and it made pressure lean against Lance’s chest. It felt like a raging thunderstorm instead of the tentative drizzle from a few weeks back, and he didn’t understand, but he willed the tingle on the back of his ribs to suffocate.

“Hey,” he said, loud enough to catch Keith’s attention, low enough not to feel his tongue burn. Keith turned to him, eyes hazy and looking so lost Lance had to swallow his next words before letting them out. “You okay?”

Keith nodded, slow, mindful of the strain on his body. His eyes weren’t leaving Lance’s face just yet, and Lance buried his fingers in the sand, looking back. It felt like a million years before Keith closed his eyes, tilting his head forward to invade Lance’s space, to make his heart catch inside his throat.

“It feels like I’m home,” Keith whispered, looking defeated, almost as if the words weren’t supposed to slip out but did anyway.

Sweat gathered on the tip of his nose before falling to the sand, his whole frame shuddering as he kept on whispering things that didn’t make any sense to Lance. He tensed, looking at Keith’s swirling bangs, at the flush that peeked from underneath.

God, was he blind?

Lance uncurled his fingers from the sand, working his gloves off quickly as he listened to Keith’s mindless chatter. Panic was rising inside his throat, and when he touched the back of his hand to Keith’s forehead, he cursed.

“I miss it,” Keith was saying, probably thinking about his shack back on earth. He sighed when he felt Lance’s skin against his own, leaning into the touch before whispering, “I miss my dad, too. Not always. Sometimes.”

_When you are delirious with fever,_ Lance thought, hand moving from Keith’s forehead to curl around the back of his neck, to pull him close. Keith’s eyes were still closed, and Lance was sure his heart would have tumbled out of his chest if Keith hadn’t kept on talking, on stuttering against the edge of his collarbone.

“Lance,” he whispered, head tilting up as he tugged at Lance’s undersuit to get his attention. As if he didn’t have it already. “I don’t ever want to miss you like this.”

Lance knew that Keith wasn’t in his right mind at the moment, that his words were nonsense—sputtered and stepped all over—, but they sounded broken, like a plea for mercy, and it made Lance gasp, made his heart break in return. He brushed Keith’s bangs back with his fingers just so he could stare at his opening eyes, just so he could touch their foreheads together and feel like Keith wasn’t slipping away.

“You won’t,” he said, breath tickling Keith’s lips. It was too hot, too messy, but it felt perfect to him. “You won’t because I’m not going anywhere.”

Keith bumped their foreheads together, then, the furrow of his brow easing with each synchronized breath they took, with every brush of Lance’s fingers on his scalp. He looked at Lance with something that made thunder spread throughout his spine, toes curl inside his shoes.

It looked like trust.

 

**_Fifth wave_ **

 

It was a phantom feeling, one that tried to slip from his fingers. It twirled around them playfully, and he swore it felt like ink spilling, dripping and dripping until it splattered all around him.

 

It tried to seep into his skin, but it just… couldn’t. It couldn’t, so after a final, longing brush, the feeling disappeared.

 

Then, his vision came back, bright and painful, just like the death of a star.

 

He growled, blinking to make his eyes adjust to the purple lighting, to the heavy weight that had settled behind them. But there wasn’t just purple coating the floors of the ship; green, yellow and black too.

 

They were like dots of arid watercolours, scattered and unmoving. _The paladins of Voltron,_ his mind whispered, and he couldn’t repress the shiver that wracked his body, the unsettling certainty that he was supposed to know their names.

 

There was another colour, but it wasn’t static. It moved, rapid and agile on the edges of his vision, and it took his eyes a few tries to catch it.

 

Blue.

 

Vibrant, dissonant blue.

 

_Destroy it,_ were the words that resonated inside of his mind. And he wanted to, wanted to tear the colour into shreds because it hurt him, somewhere inside him, where things were supposed to ache. But the colour also pulled him in. Tickled, like wandering hands against his skin.

 

_You know me,_ it seemed to murmur, digging into his mind.

 

Now the colour stood in front of him—blue paladin, blue paladin, blue paladin—, shakingly pointing a gun at him.

 

“Keith,” it said, and the sound reverberated in the room, making him feel something stirring in the pit of his stomach before a liquid ugliness suffocated it. “Wake up.”

 

A deep growl rose from his chest instead of a question—Keith? Is that me?—, and he strode forward, feeling his claws digging into his own skin.

 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the colour said, paling, becoming a washed out blue.

 

_I do._

 

He did. That’s why he pushed against the colour, unrelenting, until he had it pressed up against a wall. His hands tingled at the rich, pained sound that reached his ears, pleasure blooming in between his fingers even when something inside of him kept aching.

 

Almost as if that phantom feeling had managed to seep into his skin.

 

He felt exasperation breathing into him when he tried to dig and dig and dig with his claws, only to find solid armour instead of skin.

 

“Lance! Get away from him!”

 

_Lance?_

 

He paused, skin stirring at the sensation the name left in its wake. He looked up into the edges of the colour, only to find that it wasn’t a colour, but a person. A tired, bloodied person, whose gaze was so vibrant it seemed like the entire universe had poured into it.

 

_Kill him,_ his mind whispered, sweet and revolting.

 

But how could he kill a nebula?

 

“Come back to us,” it said into the space separating them, a hot puff of air that stirred the hair sticking to his forehead. Its hand was wrapped loosely around his wrist, but it did nothing to set itself free but whisper, “You have never been this.”

 

_You’re still Keith._

 

The way someone was molding him from the inside out felt like swallowing lava, painful beyond compare. But to that aching part of him, making the colour, the nebula, the _person,_ in front of him sad was even more painful. Unbearable. So he fought and fought and screamed, spitting the lava out and searching for that thing he was, searching for _Keith._

 

He found him, buried deep inside of himself, a mere sparkle waiting to die out. He tried reaching for it, but he could only grace it with his fingertips, warming them up. Until a pair of arms wrapped around him, a lovely shushing voice whispering into his ears, pressing against him.

 

_Lance, Lance, Lance—_

 

The sparkle shimmered, brighter and brighter, until it swallowed him, until he finally became what he was meant to be. A paladin of Voltron, part of a tender family, smitten with the guy with the brightest smile.

 

“Hey there, samurai.”

 

**_Sixth wave_ **

 

It wasn’t easy to watch the person you cared about take a bullet to the chest. Watch as it tore the skin open with sickening precision; opening and opening and opening until the blood began flowing—scarlet and hypnotizing.

 

It wasn’t easy to watch how their knees gave out, how their rippled pain manifested in a choked out sound as their body went down. Gravity was welcoming, took, _facilitated_ the downward spiral that made the soul flow cold.

 

A back arched, knees bent, and the battle stopped to allow the slow-motion fall.

 

“Keith!” Lance screamed, seeing a hundred bleeding Keiths through the broken glass of his shattered visor.

 

He didn’t know if it was the visor that shattered, or his sheer awareness, but he had no memory of rushing to Keith’s side, of dropping to his knees to pull him close, feeling fireworks blooming in his skin in the form of bruises.

 

“Why, why, why,” he murmured, hands flying to press against the wound, to tilt Keith’s head so he could see him. “Why would you do this—”

 

He choked up, voice dying when he saw the haunting colour of Keith’s skin, the way his face seemed to calm, almost at peace.

 

Like he had given up.

 

Lance fumbled to send a distress signal to the others before putting his hands back on Keith’s chest. He pressed and pressed, closing his eyes to replace the paleness of Keith’s skin with darkness.

 

The blood was warm against his palm, flowing into the tissue of his gloves, and he felt his chest catch fire, a terrifying thought clawing into his mind like a ravenous beast.

 

“You aren’t going to die,” he said, as evenly as he could, propping Keith’s head up to make breathing easier for him. A traitorous sob escaped him, making his chest tremble along the ground beneath them. “It should have been me.”

 

Because that shot was for him. The bullet had his name on it's surface, in the way the galra had taken two steps back to calibrate, to have Lance just where he wanted him. And he hadn’t even noticed, not until Keith was already on the floor, dying, and the galra was left scattered on the ground, already dead.

 

“It would k-kill me to watch y-you die,” Keith’s voice resonated inside Lance’s mind, rough and low, and he gasped, opening his eyes to find Keith awake, already staring at him.

 

He was smiling as if he wasn’t bleeding out, and Lance brought their helmets closer, knocking them together softly, unable to get any words pass his trembling lips.

 

“You’re safe,” Keith whispered, beating Lance at speaking through the knot in his throat. There was awe in his voice, making Lance’s breath catch as one gloved, trembling hand came up to rest against his cheek.

 

And oh, god, how he wished to feel Keith’s skin on his in that moment.

 

He could see the explosions reflecting on Keith’s visor, could see the shots illuminating the sky, but nothing shimmered brighter than Keith’s eyes. Nothing pulled him in and made him choke up like they did.

 

“Shh, don’t talk,” he whispered, voice failing. Keith’s fingers were curling into his skin, almost as if he wanted to hold onto him, so Lance held him tighter. “They are coming for us.”

 

And maybe it was the sheer adoration with which Keith was looking at him, as if Lance was the only and last thing he wanted to see before dying, or maybe it was the thought of watching Keith until his breath stopped that had him whispering, “I’m here with you.”

 

“I know,” he whispered back before closing his eyes, still trying to fight it. His hand hovered over Lance’s cheek before gravity pulled it down, a cruel pull that ripped into his lungs.

 

But he didn’t let go of Keith. Wouldn’t let go, not even when Shiro tried to uncurl his fingers from Keith’s body back at the castle. Not even when Pidge buried her face in his chest and begged him to, Hunk’s arms coming around them to envelop them, protect them from harm as Coran was finally able to take Keith away from Lance’s bloodied hands.

 

_I don’t want to let go_ , he thought more lucidly days later, panicked, sobbed screams left behind. _Never,_ Lance’s mind chanted as Keith stumbled out of the pod, safe and alive. As Lance stumbled, too, in his haste to envelop Keith in his arms, to call him an idiot.

 

Just like coming home.

 

 

**_Seventh wave_ **

 

He was floating inside the core of the universe, surrounded by Galra ships, and all Lance could think of was sunshine. There was a dent in one of Blue’s paws, and he found his gaze drawn to it, to the way it caught the light of the nearest star and reflected it. He used to do that as a child, play with glass and risk his mother’s rage just to see the fiery light burning through the ground.

 

His mother wasn’t there anymore to scream at him for doing dangerous things, but neither was his team. They were gone, had been swept away by one of Allura’s wormholes, and he had been too slow, too naive to get to them in time. He could still hear their screams, the panicked tones when they realized he wasn’t going to make it.

 

It cut even deeper than glass.

 

He wanted to think that he was brave, that his life had been a good one. But sitting there, inside of Blue as one of the Galra ships loomed over them, with the bruises scratching at his skin and the tears burning hot behind his eyelids, he could only think of himself as a coward.

 

Because he wasn’t fighting back, because his bones were as broken as his resolution to stay alive. It was just all _pointless_ , drowning in enemy ships as he was. So he closed his eyes, willed Blue to stay with him as the Galra ship opened its gate to swallow them, and let the reflections disappear.

 

♒ ♒ ♒

 

It had been very considerate of the druids to cage him near one of the bare windows that overlooked at the vast expanse of nothingness, even if their intentions hadn’t been the best. They had hoped Lance would become crazy, waiting for his team to come and watching as they didn’t. Had hoped that Lance would give them up, just as he had given himself up.

 

Instead, Lance counted every bright spot his eyes could capture, over and over again.

 

And again, and again, and again.

 

Two hundred and seventy-eight spots clouded his fragment of the universe, Lance concluded, wheezing on the floor after Haggar had dug her claws into his side. Maybe two hundred and seventy nine, but he couldn’t tell if that flickering new light was just an illusion made up by his bruised eye.

 

“Where are the paladins?” Haggar asked, cleaning Lance’s blood off her claws with the hem of her robe.

 

The movement was elegant, delicate, even. It drew Lance’s attention and he watched with morbid curiosity the way her fingers glistened in the dimness of the room, how she smiled when she noticed him watching.

 

Just how much blood did he need to lose until he passed out?

 

“Lance,” Haggar said, softly, in that tone that made Lance curl tighter into himself. The drawn out ‘a’ reminded him of the eagerness of his sister, of how she always asked him to braid her hair. “Where are they?”

 

“I don’t know,” he whispered, rough and low, because his voice wasn’t capable of anything else.

 

He didn’t know where his team was, where Allura had taken them. And he didn’t want to, because it meant thinking about them, about someone— _ink black hair spilling, lilac eyes sparkling…—_ , and he didn’t know if he could handle it. If the heartbreak would be better or worse than his physical wounds.

 

“Are you protecting them?” she asked, approaching Lance’s bleeding form and lowering herself to sit beside him.

 

Her robe spread around her like a blooming flower, fluttering before settling over Lance’s blood on the floor. She looked regal, bathing in the blood of her enemy, and Lance watched the cloth absorb it and become tainted.

 

_Hands covered in red, slipping against the armour as he tried to keep Keith upright, Keith’s smirk dripping with blood…_

 

And there it was, the heartbreak, coming along with the memory of how Keith had taken a bullet for him, so effortlessly heroic in the way he had swore blind that he was fine, that it had been second nature to protect Lance.

 

_It would kill me to watch you die._

 

The heartbreak pulsed inside his bones and wrapped around his throat like a vice, reminding him of how Red had tried to turn back, even when the wormhole was already closing, how Keith had screamed for him, so viciously desperate.

 

“Better me than you,” Lance mouthed, breath hitching at the assault of memories.

 

He wanted to will his blood to flow faster, to leave his body before tears caught in his eyelids and blurred his vision.

 

It didn’t work.  

 

“You are going to die, Lance,” Haggar whispered, like a secret between them. It was laced with a sadness that Lance knew to be fake, but it still cut through his heart all the same. “You are going to die for the people who let you to rot.”

 

“They—they didn’t.”

 

“Oh, but they did,” she said, one hand freeing itself from the folds of her rob to cup Lance’s cheek, to trace the end of his hairline with her claws. “It’s all here in your pretty head, isn’t it?”

 

Lance closed his eyes, hands curling into fist at his sides as he felt the painful pull of Haggar’s magic inside of him. _Don’t go inside my head, it’s ugly in here,_ he thought, deliriously, trying to hold onto his sanity as something dug into his very core.

 

The team hadn’t left him behind on purpose, but they hadn’t come for him. They weren’t coming for him. They weren’t, they weren’t, they weren’t… Even when Lance had done everything he could, even when he had protected all that he loved. They weren’t coming for him, not even Keith.

 

A riot started inside of his chest because Keith should be looking for him, should be tearing the fabric of the universe to shreds, because Keith should be here, Keith should—

 

_“Go get ‘em, sharpshooter,” he whispered, an intimate wildfire akin to hope that bended to fit inside Lance’s bones. “I have your back.”_

He opened his eyes with a gasp, one single tear rolling down his cheek and catching on the hand still cupping it. The pressure inside his mind relented, but the world wasn’t the same anymore; Haggar’s cool hand was replaced by warmth, the electricity in the air by silence.

 

“Lance,” the fevered whisper snuck beneath Lance’s skin, making him quiver with agitation, a Pavlovian effect impossible to break.

 

He would recognize that voice anywhere, in any timeline. In every single reality.

 

“Keith?” his lips formed the sounds, but it all got caught in his throat, tangled inside of it when his eyes focused on the way Keith was smiling down at him, tears gathering at the edge of his eyes.

 

He sighed, a sound that reverberated inside of Lance’s head. It was easy, it felt real, and Lance felt his grip on reality slipping away.

 

“You’re alive,” Keith whispered with awe, thumb caressing the scratched line of his cheekbone tenderly. “I—I thought I had lost you.”

 

_Don’t do this_ , Lance wanted to say, scream into the endless void surrounding them, but he was paralyzed, eyes sweeping between Keith’s eyes and his lips helplessly. He shuddered, fighting to keep a sob down when he noticed that Keith’s faint freckles were there for him to count.

 

He was on the edge of hyperventilation, because Keith looked gorgeous and real, tangible against his raw skin even when he was only an illusion created to destroy him from the inside.

 

Lance squirmed against Keith’s torso, gasping when his body locked tight with pain. Keith hushed him, hands travelling over his skin to soothe him, to make him melt back against the floor. It sent his heart raging inside his chest.

 

“Stop,” Lance murmured, skin tingling when Keith’s fingers wound up over his pulse to feel his heartbeats.

 

_It helps me focus. This way I know you’re real, that you’re here with me._

 

“I thought I wouldn’t be able to see you again,” he whispered, brows furrowing as his frame shook with something Lance didn’t want to name. Something that was squeezing the rationality in between his ribs. “Touch you again.”

 

He just wished he was lucid enough to recognize where his memory of Keith ended and the illusion began. To keep lying to himself and believe that the thing wearing Keith’s face hadn’t taken a hold of his heart strings already. Instead, he found himself wishing for Keith to breathe his lies into him. To make him forget that they were even lies.

 

“God…” Keith murmured, closing his eyes. He tilted his head, fingers curling into Lance’s skin, and Lance had never wanted something so deliriously before.

 

“Keith,” he breathed out, a simple sound that drifted into a wounded one when Keith lowered his head, kissing Lance’s forehead so tenderly it shook his very core.

 

It was a puncture wound, and as Keith’s lips opened over his skin, breathing there, all energy spilled from Lance’s body. He became pliant underneath Keith, trembling from blood loss, from the way Keith’s hands tangled in his locks and guided his face to be closer still.

 

“Keith,” he whispered, treasuring the way he traced the line of their noses together, how he stopped an inch away from his lips, breathing sharply and looking up at him from underneath his eyelashes, as if asking for permission.

 

Permission to shatter his heart and make the world crumble beneath him.  

 

“We aren’t coming for you,” the words were a sweet, hot puff against his lips, venomous in the way it made Lance choke up. In the way Keith’s eyes were still gentle, even when he was ripping the hope right out of his chest. “Just give up, Lance.”

 

It tore out the last sense of self he had, his last grip on reality, and he was left floating in uncertainty, scared and alone, skin crawling at the once warmth of Keith’s touch.

 

“Don’t—” he hissed, fighting to break free, belly churning.

 

He slipped on his own blood, body twisting and spasming when Keith’s hold on him became too tight, too burning. _Don’t taint Keith like this,_ he thought, pushing weakly against his chest and crying out when the fingers locked in his hair pulled harshly.

 

“Give Haggar what she needs,” Keith growled, smile turning grotesque as he stared Lance down, a predator playing with his food. “And forget all about us.”

 

It was a free fall, to see Keith’s eyes widen with hunger as purple shone on the edges of his irises. It was like tripping on the last step of a staircase, knowing you were going to crash hard and not being able to do anything. Nothing, he could do nothing as the pull came back inside his head, magic scratching and molding, making him scream and convulse in Keith’s arms. It burned the world away, burned the atoms that held him together, melting them until he wasn’t.

 

He became nothing as the purple followed him behind his eyelids, twisting and twisting and twisting. When it finally disappeared, leaving a hot trail of curling smoke behind it, the darkness replaced it, washing over him and threatening to take him from everything he knew.

 

He welcomed it.

 

♒ ♒ ♒

 

It was the sound of explosions that brought him back to himself. Slowly, so painfully slowly, and still his body couldn’t handle the pain it had been put through. Couldn’t handle awareness when his mind was shattered, scattered throughout the spaces between the two hundred and seventy-eight celestial bodies that had accompanied him.

 

Even so, Lance opened his eyes, wanting the world to greet him, to reassure him he still fit inside his skin and bones.

 

But the world was busy being bathed in red lights, being loud and vibrant with chaos; soldiers, druids, prisoners running, running, _running._

 

He blinked, trying to get rid of the dried blood on his eyelashes, and watched, in a daze, how everything rushed past the opened door of his prison. His eyes closed, and he wondered why he was stranded here, unable to run, and paralyzed with pain. So, so much pain.

 

His mind dipped into his darkest corners, unbidden, but before he could lose himself to it, the ground rumbled, shaking at the sound of a roar so loud it reverberated into his chest and breathed life into him. Hope, instead of lies and rot.

 

Red.

 

He opened his eyes, remembering where he was, who he was, _what_ he was. Pain didn’t matter, not when he was a paladin of Voltron, not when there was someone who would tear a galra ship apart for him.

 

He tried to repress the ugly flare of doubt that rose from the pit of his stomach and thought about what Keith had always been: an impulsive force that wrecked everything that crossed his path. A fast, igniting magnet that would always draw Lance in. Lance smiled, the cut on his lip stinging as it opened, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care when the drops of blood dripped freely onto the ground.

 

“Hey, kitty,” he whispered fondly, skin buzzing along the reddish purring inside his mind.  

 

It amplified everything: explosions, screams, the screech of metal bending… Footsteps. Heavy breathing and muttered curses—the whisper of Lance’s name. His heart beat painfully against his chest, hands curling against the floor as he leaned against the bars of the cage, waiting.

 

“Lance!”

 

And there it was, the voice that could drive Lance crazy. The person for whom he would give up anything. He looked up and watched Keith enter the room, running, rushing to get to him. It made Lance’s chest tighten, made him lean forward and watch the way Keith fell to his knees before Lance’s cage, so eagerly and desperately.

 

Keith was talking, saying things that should have been important, but Lance couldn’t hear him over the sound of the cage’s lock being busted open, over the relief that his heart pumped into his veins when he had Keith’s focused face so close.

 

And then he had it even closer when Keith rushed inside the cage, crawling into the small space until he was hovering over Lance, covering him from any danger with his own body; a subconscious sweetness that had Lance’s heart pulsing in his ears. Keith’s eyes widened upon seeing the wreck that Lance had become.

 

“What did they do to you?” he whispered, horrified, one hand coming up to cradle his cheek just as the other Keith had done. The touch was soft, barely there, but Lance flinched, purple flashing at the back of his mind.

 

He was grateful that Keith pulled back with a muttered ‘sorry,’ dropping his hand and arching his body to give Lance space and still be protecting his form. He wasn’t grateful for the throb inside of his chest at Keith’s look, full of ache and uncertainty as he hovered over him.

 

“Lance? Talk to me, please.”

 

Keith’s hands had been gentle, his voice a trembling mess and his eyes—Lance couldn’t believe how he had melted under that washed out copy of Keith’s vibrant eyes without a second thought.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, because something ugly twisted in his belly at the thought.

 

He didn’t want Haggar to have this. Didn’t want those gorgeous eyes to be tainted because of his weakness. Keith didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve to have a hurricane of emotions inside of him, to look at Lance with a mix of fury and sadness and still manage to speak so softly.

 

“What are you apologizing for?”

 

He shrugged, feeling warmth spilling onto his skin as tears flowed freely, the feeling of safety drowning the ugly voice in his mind that assured him all of this was another illusion. He didn’t deserve this either, to feel guilty for getting captured, for wanting to feel Keith so badly he forgot himself, for caring too deeply and fucking up too badly. But they didn’t have time for pity parties, not when they should be getting out of there, running back to safety—

 

“Lance,” and it was incredible how his voice could send a shiver thundering down Lance’s spine, how it could make it pool in his belly. “Can I touch you?”

 

He was trying to hold onto Lance like someone who was trying to hold onto water; desperately and foolishly. But Lance wanted Keith to do it, to not let him spill, wanted to remember how to breathe so he could tell him. Instead, he collapsed forward, falling softly onto Keith’s chest.

 

“You told me to forget all about you,” he whimpered against Keith’s breastplate, feeling his hovering hands over his body as Keith shifted. He wanted them to soothe the coolness of his skin. “It wa-was you, but it wasn’t y-you and I—”

 

“Haggar played with you,” Keith said calmly, but there was anger boiling underneath it, nothing sweet or soft, just a barrelling force born from the desire to protect Lance.

 

And Lance was in love, so utterly and completely in love that it had been used against him; a sword that had cut into his deepest part, hoping for him to bleed out. But it was a double-edge one, and Lance knew how to fight back, knew how to turn weakness into strength.

 

“Touch me,” he whispered, curling into Keith, tugging at the edge of his armour and finding his strength there.

 

He gasped when Keith closed in on him, his presence wrapping around him, no longer hesitant as he dipped his fingers beneath Lance’s chin to tip it upwards. It made him want to cry, the way Keith stared at him as if he had painted the stars of the universe with bloody fingers.

 

“Lance,” he said, rough, low, lovely. “I will always come for you. _Always._ ”

 

He leaned forward, never taking his eyes off Lance’s, and caressed the edge of his jaw with a gloved hand. Lance melted, wanting the fabric separating them gone, wanting his skin to flush underneath Keith’s. Wanting so much he could only make a breathy sound into the space separating them.

 

“Let me take you home,” Keith whispered as he knocked their foreheads together softly, breath hitching and body tightening. “Back to our family.”

 

“Yes,” and maybe Lance shuddered in Keith’s arms, a sweet thing this time, as Keith moved to breathe against his temple. To lay unspoken words on his breached skin, hoping to say them someday when things were softer, gentler.

 

Kinder.

 

 

**_Eighth wave_ **

 

Desperation, as Keith knew, tasted bitter on his tongue. He had experienced it a few times before, along with frantic movements, screams, and the tell-tale pain in between his ribs. He knew its taste, its smell, the way it created a tsunami inside of his veins, loud and powerful. He didn’t know this quiet, dormant feeling, akin to desperation on its edges, but still so

static at its core.

_Defeat, maybe,_ Keith thought, groaning when the pull that had him and Red captured grew stronger.

It was hard not to feel that way when a black hole had pulled you in like an unwanted lover, eager to devour you, with or without consent. Keith had tried to fight it at first, but even the best pilot of a generation knew that there was no winning against a force so powerful it destroyed stars.

So it was just Red and him, waiting for the inevitable, waiting to be torn apart and made into something else, something useful to the universe. He could feel her all around him, a presence to ease his mind, to assure him that he wasn’t alone. Keith appreciated it, really. He loved that the fiery protectiveness he felt towards Red was returned, but there was nothing that could soothe him at the moment.

Not even the outline of the blue lion, striking a beautiful contrast against the nebulae swirling by.

So far away, still so far away.

Lance would be proud to know that the sight took Keith’s breath away, would chatter endlessly about how _obviously_ it would, because his baby girl was the most perfect magical lion in the universe—and Keith wouldn’t tell him that it was because he knew Lance was there inside of her, safe and sound.

Keith’s fingers curled around Red’s controls, tightening until it hurt. He couldn’t decide if it was a gift or sheer torture, to die knowing that Lance was right _there._

He should have said something. Should have told him about the fire living underneath his skin, the one that wouldn’t let him think of anything else but Lance’s boyish smile. The one that had been waiting to break out since one of Lance’s touches made his skin prickle. He should have, should have—

But time didn’t understand regrets, and death didn’t care for them. Keith knew, god, he knew and yet…

He was in love with Lance, and a goddamn coward, too.

He didn’t want to put that fire out, didn’t want to suffocate it until it died. Keith wanted it to survive, to burn bright until it was reborn inside someone else’s chest. Someone who would love Lance better. Someone who would find the courage to kiss his lips until they looked red and loved, not just stare at the sharp curves of his face and ache.

Keith wanted to survive and do it himself.

“Lance,” he whispered, closing his eyes and feeling gravity’s pull in his gut.

He always loved the way Lance’s name rolled off his tongue. No matter the tone, it was one of the easiest words he had had the pleasure of pronouncing, and now he used it as a comfort. As a prayer.

_Let me see him again,_ he thought, a mere desire that ran so deep he needed to put it into words.

And the universe put it into existence, into a washed out brightness that blinded Keith, as sudden as an explosion. A _deus ex machina_ so perfect, that when he blinked his eyes open Lance was there, on the floor right in front of him, gasping and using Keith’s knees as leverage.

“Can’t believe that worked,” Lance said with a breathless chuckle, with the spark in his eyes and the smile that made Keith’s heart flush.

Keith curled his fingers tighter around Red’s control, blood stopping its flow, and then, “Lance?”

He was standing up, still leaning against Keith, and Keith couldn’t find it in himself to touch him. Even when his lithe body was the same as he remembered, even when his hips still traced the perfect curve for Keith to fit his hands in. Even when his fingers were squeezing his knees reassuringly, calling him softly.

“Buddy? It’s alright. It’s really me.”

And maybe he was reluctant to believe it, to believe that the universe was kind enough to give him this. But no one could fake those eyes because Keith would know. No matter how carefully Lance’s crafted copy was, Keith would know in an instant if it didn’t feel right.

But they did, they felt _too_ right as they wandered over Keith’s face, searching. It was then, when desperation had begun to turn into something gentler, that reality crushed his ribcage, a reminder of what would happen in a matter of minutes.

A reminder that Lance shouldn’t be there.

“You have to go,” he said, voice breaking around the edges. His fingers uncurled from Red, only to curl back on Lance’s undersuit to draw him away, to—

Lance caught Keith’s chin with his fingers, tilting his head up until there was nothing in the world but each other’s eyes. The contact was soft, but unwavering, just as Lance’s voice, “Look at me.”

“I am,” _I always am._

“Good. Now, see this?” he asked, touching the small, golden circle attached to his chest. “It’s a device the Erkal people created with Pidge’s help.”

The planet they had saved eons ago. Right.

“It teleported me here, and it will teleport us back,” his fingers tightened on Keith’s skin for a second, just long enough for his voice to go from iron to soft concern. “Okay?”

Keith nodded, slowly, the fabric of Lance’s gloves tickling his skin, making him lean into the contact. He wanted to say so many things, but his words were clogged inside of his throat, bubbling there when Lance traced the edge of his jaw before letting go.

He turned around to lean, this time, on Red’s panels. Keith watched, entranced, as Lance began to whisper sweet nothings, as he coaxed a steady rumbling out of Red that resonated beneath their feet. He had such an ease to make anyone feel loved, to make Red trust him with her life as much as Keith did.

To make Keith feel proud.

Lance laid another golden circle on Red’s panels, letting the colour fade into her machinery before turning back around, to pin Keith to his seat with a single look. He was carrying another device, clutching it tightly in his hand—as if it was more important than his own life—, and couldn’t seem to find the words to say.

Keith didn’t want words. Words were of no use when there weren’t actions to back them up. Keith didn’t want words, because there was no way to express how much he ached to have Lance safe, relaxed and laughing, as he always should be. He didn’t _have_ words, so he caught Lance’s hands with his own—a created reflex—, and pulled him in until there was nothing separating them, until the weight of Lance’s spread thighs over his lap and Red’s rumble were the only things that constituted his conscious universe.

The two loves of his life.

“Did you really think I was going to let you die?” it was a mere murmur, voiced into the collar of Keith’s armour as Lance pressed their bodies together.

And Keith was weak for Lance’s body curling around him, for the fire that crackled behind his irises at Keith’s silence and at the sudden knowledge that Keith didn’t think Lance wouldn't tear the laws of space and time into shreds just to rescue him. He was weak, but he had never felt safer, so he let his head loll back against the seat, closing his eyes as his hands settled on Lance’s hips.

Not even the sound of the device being attached to his armour could cover the breathy sound that slipped from Lance’s lips.

“You’re an idiot,” there was a tremble there, when Keith’s fingers tightened around him, when both their helmets tumbled to the ground after fumbling with their edges.

It was still there when Lance buried his lips in his neck, breathing in as if he had been deprived of oxygen for too long.

“Ready?” he asked quietly, the sound travelling all over Keith’s skin.

There was no other answer than to bury himself in Lance’s scent, to caress his lips against his temple before disappearing in a flash, leaving nothing behind but the memory of yielding touches to swallow.

 

**_Ninth wave_ **

 

_It might as well be the end of the world._

It was the only quiet, simple thought that reverberated inside Lance’s mind. The only one that grew stronger as he gasped against the ground, as he desperately tried to keep his thoughts from tangling with each other.

The sky was turning an angry colour above him, flames devouring the forest hungrily, and all Lance’s body could do was lay in a mess of machinery, too busy clutching at his own chest—painfully tight, so painfully _tight—_ to track the scattered parts of the ship.

It laid in a wreck in front of him, and Keith was supposed to be there, was supposed to be in that ship where smoke rose to meet the roaring clouds, where the structure crumbled to shifting dust.

It felt worse inside of him; lungs tainted black, heart pumping ink.

“Keith,” he whispered with a breath he didn’t have, his fingers curling and uncurling in front of him as if he was trying to reach him.

The panic was settling deep inside, just under his ribs, and Lance knew that there was air around him, enough for him to breathe, but it wouldn’t come. It just wouldn’t stay inside his lungs, and the rawness, the _burn_ spread out through his nerves like a plague, leaving him a curling, trembling mess.

He realised, distantly, that he was trying to stand up. His body moved on its own accord, coordinating his aching muscles to make him walk, make him stumble forward over and over again. The swirling thoughts disappeared from his mind in favour of Keith’s name, a chant inside his head that slipped out his mouth like a prayer.

He couldn’t be dead.

Electricity snapped through the air, the sky crackling as the ground held beneath his feet. One step, then another, a trip, another step—

Keith couldn’t be dead.

He couldn’t have burned with the rest of the ship because he was _Keith._ The one who always survived; the impulsiveness always rash and sudden, but never failing to keep him alive. Never failing to keep _Lance_ alive.

His toes dug into the ground, calves trembling inside his undersuit, and how—how could Keith be dead when Lance had spent his waking hours suffocating under how ridiculously in love he was with Keith, when he had coughed out the remnants of a love that refused to die in the form of ashes and smoke?

The sky howled above him, and his blood howled back, rushing inside his veins. It was a lulling sound, a company that coaxed him to go further, to push his body further  even when his mind was lost with the storm.

_Go to him,_ it seemed to say, defeating the persistent noise that rang  in his ears to plant the words inside his head, to let them grow and spread towards his limbs.

But maybe the words weren’t for him, maybe they were for that aching part of his heart, the one that was buried underneath machinery, being crushed alive.

The one that always survived.

It was a daydream, wishful thinking. That’s what Lance’s mind tried to tell him. But he knew those gloves, those fingers that were clawing at the ground. He knew that set of shoulders, the distinctive way the undersuit clung to them.

The sky was howling still, but Lance’s mind was eerily quiet. He felt the ashes swirling around him, clinging to his skin. Felt the tears give way, cleaning a path down to the edge of his jaw and falling from there, black-stained.

He knew that frame. Knew it down to the bone, down to his melting bones.

“Keith?” he murmured, and the storm drowned it easily, just as she had drained the air from his lungs.

And there it was, that sweet, porcelain, ruthless face, tilting up to watch his surroundings, to breathe in. Their eyes locked and Lance saw, _felt_ in his gut the rush of adrenaline that bit into Keith’s tender places.

 

A phoenix rising.

 

Lance watched the way Keith's muscles moved, harsh and fast, high on the rush of feeling himself victorious. It took him a mere minute to get out from underneath the wreckage, a mere minute to rise from the ground with his eyes set on Lance, but it felt like more. As if a hundred years had passed, and the only thing that had stood invariable were the red sparks flying around him, framing his eyes, the kaleidoscope colours against his skin.

 

His steps were sure and steady, just as the blood that was trailing over his cheekbones, but he was fine. God, he was fine, and alive and so close now that Lance could feel the warmth of his eyes scorching his heart, the gravity of his hands reaching for him and, and—

 

"What were you thinking!?"

 

The words rang in the air, loud and vibrant for a moment before the wind took them away. It swept everything away with it, every single sound; even the hesitant step Keith took backwards was deaf to his ears. His heartbeat was pulsing inside of his head, drowning everything else, drowning the _surely_ lovely gasp that made Keith open his mouth.

 

But Lance could still feel, and god, did he feel the tears cascading down his cheeks, so violently that he thought he would drown.

 

"You didn't even think!" his voice still roared, even when his throat was on fire, aching with every syllable that rolled off his tongue. "What were you trying to do, kill yourself!?"

 

"I was trying to save us!" Keith screamed back, stepping into Lance's space.

 

There was a storm above them, curling violently red, but there was a storm in the space between them, too; a thundering shiver that wrecked them both when Keith's hands wrapped around Lance's arms, the heavy weight of water raining down when Keith's tears joined Lance's on the floor.

 

"You were saving _me_ , not yourself! You never try to save yourself!" his voice broke, creating a cadence that made Keith draw him in, closer and closer still.

 

Lance pushed a hand against Keith's chest, fingers curling there as he felt his pulse thudding through his undersuit. They couldn't keep on ripping eachother's hearts out like this. Not even when Keith was being maddeningly gentle, despite the furious set of his mouth, the tight line of his shoulders. He was a paradox, in a way.

 

And maybe Lance was, too, because he couldn't decide whether to push Keith away or pull him in, let his heartbeat clog his throat with relief, anger and everything in between.

 

"Well, I'm alive, aren't I?" and there was something desperate in his tone. In his eyes, too, Lance thought as he looked up from the tensed column of Keith's neck.

 

It was easy to forget what had happened when they were like this. To drown out the rest of the world—the storm, the fire—when he could feel Keith alive in between his fingers, in between his breaths. When he could see _adoration_ painted clear in his eyes, in how he held Lance.

 

Lance wanted it to be easy, but it really wasn't. Because he had screamed his heart out, terrified of the way the ground had almost crumbed beneath his feet at the prospect of losing Keith to the flames. Because his nails were digging into Keith’s collarbone, almost as if he could crawl up inside of him and make sure he could never leave.

Keith’s eyes wandered over his face, fingers twitching steadily over his skin, as if he wanted to reach out and trace Lance’s bruises. Lance shivered and the ground followed, sympathetic.

 

“One day you won’t be!” he pushed against Keith’s chest, feeling the firmness there and stumbling into it. Keith caught him, gasping when Lance’s fingers held onto the curve of his neck. “One day you won’t have the same luck and I can’t—I can’t—”

 

“If it’s to keep you safe, I—”

 

“Don’t give me that!” the words churned his stomach because it felt special, and they were anything but. It felt special, too, when Keith’s hands covered his hips. “Why would you keep doing this, Keith!?”

 

_Touching and looking at me like you could do it for eons, laying down your life for me, making me crazy about you—_

 

“ _Because I love you!_ ”

 

The words stumbled from Keith’s mouth just as the sky broke above them; with ease, with the rapid unfurling of something that has been coiled up for far too long. The clouds crackled, pulsing with energy, and Lance felt it in his chest, felt Keith's trembling hands bleeding into the sharp cut of his hips.

 

It was dizzying, _surreal_ , so Lance leaned forward, bumping their foreheads together and watching with widened eyes the way Keith watched him in return; a quivering eruption that flowed and flowed until Lance was drowning.

 

"I love you," Keith repeated in the space between their mouths, a sanctuary that the storm couldn't touch. A sanctuary that Lance wanted to defile. "So _fiercely_."

 

Keith's breath draped over his lips—a mimicry of how Keith's mouth would feel against his own—

and Lance shivered; a cool, violent caress that wrenched the air out of his lungs. His heart was beating through his chest and Keith surely could hear it, could feel it tingling from where his eyes were honed in on Lance's lips.

 

There was a world of fire raining down on them and the only thing they could do was watch each other.

 

It set the embers inside of him aflame, and when he called out for Keith—to suffocate it, to make it stronger, to let it consume him, he didn't _know_ —his name turned into a breathy, disjointed sound.  He could feel Keith's throat working underneath his fingers, fluttering and lovely, and then—

 

"I'm terrified of losing you," he frowned, as if the words pained him. His hands travelled up Lance's frame as he nuzzled closer, the motion making their noses brush together. "Terrified of destroying this."

 

_I'm the same_ , Lance wanted to say, wanted so bad for his voice to work, but instead his fingers threaded themselves into Keith's hair, curling at his nape. It was exhilarating to watch the way Keith trembled finely against him, the way he stuttered out a breath before he continued talking, disarming and electrifying.

 

"It's torture because I have you, but I don't _have_ you. And sometimes I want to destroy this—what we have. Kiss you until you're breathless and I'm shaking, until we are—"

 

There was a muffled sound and then there was Lance, moving as his eyelids dropped, pressing in, in, _in_ , until the only thing he could feel was the brush of Keith's lips against his own. He wanted to destroy it, too, wanted to burn everything to the ground if it meant feeling Keith like this, wet and warm against his mouth, opening up to let out a startled moan.

 

It took a second, one hesitating second before Keith was kissing him back, leaning into him and kissing the lights out from behind Lance's eyelids.

 

Lance's hands tightened on Keith at the sensation, leaving lovely indents on his skin while dark strands curled in between his fingers. He gasped, feeling Keith's hands trail against his back, going down, down, _down_ before coming back up, before Keith was pressing deeper against his mouth.

 

"Keith," he murmured, finally finding his voice when Keith breathed it back into him.

 

Lance wanted his kisses to mar Keith's skin, to speckle it so everyone could see. He wanted to succumb to that aching need, but he also wanted to do this right, to pour out everything he had tried to smother, so he tried to pull away, only to gasp when Keith followed after his lips breathlessly.

 

"God," Lance chuckled, surrendering to the warmth of one more kiss before pushing his fingers against Keith's jaw, softly. "Wait, wait, wait."

 

His lips tingled and it made his toes curl, as did the sight of Keith flushed, staring at him dazedly. It felt like a miracle, a miracle that dropped into the pit of his stomach like molten gold, drip by drip until he felt too big for his skin.

 

For this happiness.

 

"I _adore_ you," he said, catching one drifting lock of hair and tugging it behind Keith's ears.

 

And it was the way Keith beamed, the way his hands trembled over Lance as his eyes watered, that made Lance lean in and brush their lips together to make Keith's toes curl in turn.

 

"I have loved you—" Lance managed to say before Keith caught his mouth again. Thoroughly. "Since forever—" Kiss. "You—" A bitten lip bled into a groan. "Oblivious—" A chuckle. Another kiss. "Gorgeous—" Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. "Idiot."

 

Keith laughed; a sweet, clear sound that suffocated the rumbling of the storm and the smoke coating Lance's lungs. It felt like breathing in when you had reaching your drowning point, like shedding an armour after a battle known won.

 

Relief, and awe, and everything in between.

 

"Kiss me more," he pleaded, and Lance caved in.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are really appreciated! ♡
> 
> You can find me at @warmybones in both tumblr and twitter.


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